


Drag Me On Down, Gladly I'll Follow

by TehChou



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Calm Down Erik, Charles You Slut, Community: kink_bingo, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles enjoys a night on the town and wakes in the bed of the stranger he met last night. He insists that nothing happened between them, but that doesn't stay true for long.</p><p>Erik fails miserably at not being jealous and when he finds out who the 'stranger' was, things come to a head.</p><p>For MY DAH-LINK INTRODUCTORY and the Kink_Bingo square 'Orgasm Denial/Control'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drag Me On Down, Gladly I'll Follow

**Author's Note:**

> There is nothing in this that is not porn.
> 
> The wording starts to go a little dub-con-y some ways in. It's not meant to read that way, but it easily can be, so I'm going to warn for that anyways. Lots of slut-shaming and anger management issues. AAAANGST.

It’s not quiet here. It’s loud in the way that it doubles back until it’s all just white noise against the backdrop of his own thoughts.

Sometimes, Charles likes to go to these kinds of establishments. He likes to scratch an itch most people don’t know he has.

Or at least an itch that others don’t acknowledge, in themselves or in him. He doesn’t like being stuck couped up in a room with a man who holds himself coiled like an angry cobra while he flirts as easy breathing.

Erik denies himself too much and Charles, well.

Charles just wants to take his mind off it, as pleasantly as he can.

So it is that he finds himself walking into that haze of smoke, familiar from a thousand bars in a thousand places just like this. He sits himself at the bar and orders himself a drink or three, smiling cheekily at the bartender, throwing out a joke he already knows will enamour him to the affable fellow and sits back, backwards in his seat to enjoy the view.

There’s a good fifty or so people here, all mingling, lives entangling as they share drink and secrets. This is a safe place, or as safe as one can get, following certain _proclivities_. Even still, the police have been here on numerous occasions, horrible, nasty business, but tonight that’s not in the cards. Tonight is going to be an ordinary, peaceful night and Charles throws back the shots, _one-two-three_ before he can even register the burn.

He doesn’t have to be back until late, after all. Tonight and most of tomorrow are in limbo, carrying him with them in male arms and willing flesh. No mutations here, if he is meant to find anyone, he will. Until then, Charles orders another shot that slides like anticipation down his throat, washing away thoughts of steel in blue.

\---

“Melanin,” he begins, sliding into the seat across from a fellow with gorgeous, slick brown hair and a ridiculously cutting set of cheekbones. The man’s eyebrows raise almost to his hairline, disappearing in the swoop of his bangs.

“What about it,” he asks, voice both a little nasal and a lot smooth.

“It’s what creates that particularly stunning shade of brown you’re sporting,” he replies and holds out his hand, grins quick and blinding. “I’m Charles. You are?”

The other takes a swig of his drink (scotch on the rocks) and eventually returns the gesture, grip firm and warm in his. His palm is dry

“You can call me Sebastian,” he returns, smiling a slow, easy grin that Charles instantly likes.

And of course, three sheets to the wind as he is, telepathy dampened with alcohol, Charles isn’t really in any position to make these judgements.

\---

He comes to sometime the next day. An awful, mind numbing hangover throbs so powerfully that spider-silk lines overlay his vision, making it impossible in those first moments to see.

“Well,” a voice says, deep and rich with amusement. “Looks like someone finally woke up.”

Charles groans and groans, again when there’s a thunk like an earthquake beside his head. The voice speaks up, again.

“Come on, sit up at least. Forcing water down someone’s throat isn’t pleasant. I’d rather you take it yourself, if you would.” It pauses, considering. “And the pain killer wouldn’t hurt, I’m sure.”

“Oh god, a bullet would be better, if you have one,” Charles answers from the confines of the sheets. “Why is it so bright?”

“Because it’s almost noon,” the voice answers dryly and suddenly Charles registers that something is off, that this is a voice he only knows murkily, from a half-remembered dream and this isn’t his bed and--

Charles groans one more time for good measure and sits up. His hair is a ruffled mess, shirt wrinkled beyond all hope. Apparently he fell asleep in this man’s bed (Sebastian, his hazy memory informs him) at his _hotel_ room. He holds out his hand for the glass and the pill. Sebastian, clearly a saint deposits them with a deft quickness and Charles downs them both in one long swallow. He flops back into the bed and immediately regrets it when he nearly brings back up what he just put down.

“Mrrr,” he articulates and Sebastian laughs, a light, tinkling thing. There’s a shift of the bed, redistributed weight and then Sebastian is next to him, warm and, though Charles can’t quite access his telepathy beyond the pounding in his head, he thinks, anyways, amused.

“Right,” he grumbles, into a pillow, takes a deep breath and tilts his head until he can speak. “I’m sorry. You’re amazing, you’re wonderful. Thank you so much for not kicking me out of your bed and out onto the streets.”

“Well,” he drawls dryly from somewhere closer then Charles had estimated. “You kind of passed out there, and really. You were just too adorable to wake up.” Charles laughs a little, immediately regrets it and then there’s a hand on his back, kneading, pressing and Charles feels himself melt like butter.

“Hnngh, god don’t stop,” he moans, too grateful to be embarrassed at how pathetic and probably wanton he sounds. Sebastian makes a little humming noise from over his head, fingers sliding into his hair, massaging his scalp. The weight of the bed shifts, again, and then he’s leaning over, talking in his ear.

“You know what else is good for headaches,” he purrs, trailing his other hand down his side. In his addled state, Charles is just glad he’s not being excessively loud.

“What,” he murmurs, trying to press deeper into those lovely fingers. He feels a tickle of lips against his ear; a smile.

“Sex,” he sighs out, and when did he situate himself so firmly against Charles’ side? When did he--

“Oh,” Charles says, very quietly, stills. “Last night, I didn’t-- I’m so sorry, I wasn’t--”

“No,” Sebastian cuts him off, the hand not in his hair palming his hip, now. “You were a complete gentlemen.” A pause, considering. “Well, if you consider vomiting in my sink _gentlemanly_ behaviour.” Charles swears and hides his face in the pillow while Sebastian’s laughter rings out through the air, cutting bright lines into Charles’ head.

“I can’t believe you think that’s _funny_ ,” he bemoans and peeks blearily from the cocoon he’s made himself. “If I was in your position I would be much less affable, I’m sure.”

That hand is still at his hip.

“Has anyone ever told you you have a gorgeous, cocksucking mouth?” Sebastian asks, completely out of the blue, skittering back to the other topic and leaving Charles, without the full strength of his telepathy, floundering to catch up. His brows go up to his hairline and he laughs, a little weakly.

“You don’t spend anytime cutting to the chase, do you my friend,” he murmurs and Sebastian beams.

“Well, while I can hardly call you hanging all over me in a bar _cutting to the chase,_ but--”

“Oh god, I didn’t.”

“You did,” Sebastian answers brightly. “But on the other hand, barely two minutes meeting each other sober and we already get each other so well. We’re going to get along swimmingly, Charles,” he winks, pats his ass and stands, holding out his hand.

“But first, a shower. No offence to what I’m sure is your usual pristine continence, but you smell like a stairwell.”

“Do insults of that caliber usually get you somewhere?” Charles asks blandly, very carefully shaking his head, but he takes the offered hand and levers himself laboriously to his feet, the world spinning so that he misses most of Sebastian’s reply.

“--not my usual forte.”

Charles blinks and swallows, flashes him a sallow grin.

“What was that, love, I didn’t quite catch it,” he asks, but Sebastian just snorts and starts pushing him towards the bathroom.

The tiles are cold against his bare feet and Charles wistfully thinks of his cozy slippers at home until something else catches his eye.

“Oh,” he says, drifting over to the sink. “I hope you don’t mind, only I feel a bit like something’s died in my mouth.” he gestures to the wrapped toothbrush and little tube of complimentary toothpaste and Sebastian laughs (he has a nice laugh, sinuous and catching) and waves a magnanimous hand from where he’s propped up against the doorjamb.

“Be my guest,” he says and Charles approximates a beam and gets to work, spitting and gargling, only a little self conscious in front of the hovering gaze of Sebastian. If he wants to leave, he can.

When he’s done he towels off his face, swallows a few more sips of the water. He shifts, a little uncomfortably. Leaving. Right.

“Uh,” he says. “I, uh, well. I’ll take that shower, now.”

Sebastian grins wolfishly.

“What are you waiting for, then,” he says and Charles colours, laughing.

“You have to _leave_ ,” he insists. “I’m going to take off my grungy clothes and make a mess of your shower and I’m not sure where you think you fit into that equation--”

“Well, considering I was rather hoping to fuck you into the mattress later, I figured modesty wasn’t quite an issue.”

Charles blinks. Well. At least he isn’t blushing like he’s twelve anymore. There’s not enough blood left in his face for that.

“Uhm,” he sways, a little dizzy, cock suddenly straining in his breeches and Sebastian chuckles, low and warm and vibrating in the back of his throat. He unfolds himself, picks at Charles’ clothes, wrinkles his nose.

“You’re right,” he says, dryly, “these are disgusting. Come on, get them off, then. You can’t take a shower fully clothed.” His hands are surprisingly skilled, spinning Charles this way and that, hands roaming over flesh and cloth alike and at the end of it Charles is leaning back against him, Sebastian’s now naked chest, out of breath and pleased. He’s driven in to the shower, Sebastian hovering over his shoulder, rolling on the tap at the same time as he rolls his hips against the bare arc of Charles’ backside. Charles lets out a little gasp and thrusts back into that hard line, satisfied when Sebastian lets out a low rumble in his ear.

“I still have a headache,” he says, sadly and Sebastian snorts.

“Oh dear, we can’t have that,” he replies wryly and those hands come up, covered in shampoo and then he’s massaging it into his scalp, Charles making pathetic wanton noises into the spray. The warm water is damp on his lips, refreshing on his body and Sebastian is a quickly slickening weight against him, pleasant and _large_.

“Mm,” he purrs as Sebastian’s head dips, hips still thrusting and mouths at his neck. One hand is still tangled in his hair, the other sliding lower, lower over his front and Charles’ catches it in his own, traces the path down his own body. Charles tilts his head so Sebastian has easier access to the pulsing of his throat, reaches his other arm up to brace against the shower door. Sebastian’s lips immediately latch on, suck bruising kisses into soft flesh.

Charles arches into it, stretches in the tight confines of the shower, crowded between flesh and tile and sighs.

“Soap,” he murmurs, though he makes no move towards procuring it. “I really would like to be clean, you know,” and Sebastian licks a trail up his neck, smiling. The hand at his hair lets go, disappears, slopes down, down, sliding over his ass so he’s cradling him. One hand spreads flat across his belly, the other, one finger, slick with nothing but water, slides down, presses _in_ and Charles moans at the _stretch_ of it.

“Then let’s get you clean,” Sebastian says and flexes. It’s not quite a burning sensation, not yet, but any more and it’ll hurt. Charles suddenly wants it so bad he can barely breathe.

“More,” he manages hips rocking and with a low, gravely laugh Sebastian obliges, thrusts two fingers into him, working laboriously in and out, in and out. Charles cries out, stomach undulating with helpless little jerks, needy. Eventually, Sebastian’s free hand snakes out from under the grip Charles has on it and he obligingly lets go, braces himself more firmly against the tiled wall, spreading wider, easier. Sebastian takes the complementary soap from the holder, rolls it in one hand until it lathers. He slides the slick bar over his ribs, the nub of a nipple, across his neck. Charles whimpers, tries to shift in his grip, to kiss him, but Sebastian is impervious, stills him with a quirk of his fingers.

“Let me,” he says, running the soap over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. “I’m the one going to be fucking you, after all. Shouldn’t I get to chose?”

And then his fingers find that spot, that perfect sweet spot deep inside him and Charles shudders helplessly, mouth working, the spray of the shower flowing past his lips. Sebastian hums, deep in his throat, like he’s won something and oh, his hands drift closer, closer, then skate away. Sebastian rubs soapy circles into his knee and Charles swears, pressing back against him.

“It’s _clean_ , goddamn you,” he grunts, rubbing his ass demandingly against the fingers twisting in to him. “ _Fuck me._ ”

“I don’t keep lube in the bathtub, Charles,” Sebastian snorts, mouthing at the hill of a rib. “You’re going to have to think of something else, something _else_ that’s clean,” and the tang of soap is unpleasant, fighting with the taste of fresh mint, but when Sebastian moves back up his body, circles fingers around his lips, stroking and tugging Charles opens up obligingly, sucks them in.

“Cocksucking lips, Charles,” he says, heavy with meaning. “Dirty your knees, again, for me? Since I’ve been so good at taking care of you.”

“Yeah,” Charles breathes, hips thrusting helplessly with regret as Sebastian withdraws those probing fingers. He turns around, gets that kiss, cupping his face, running his hands along those cheekbones like he’d wanted to do since they met in the bar. “Promise to fuck me after?” Sebastian hmms against his mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” he replies and Charles draws back, just a little, licks his lips until Sebastian’s gaze flicks down to them. He chews, careful, until he a hint of iron wells up against his tongue, eyes dancing.

“Promise,” he repeats and sinks to his knees. Sebastian’s fingers tangle instantly in his hair as Charles swallows the entirety of it in one go and yeah, he’s showing off a little, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the sound he’s making, low uninhibited grunts, primal. His head thunks back against the shower door.

“Oh, they weren’t lying, _your lips_ ,” he groans and Charles opens his throat and _hums_. Sebastian’s hips jerk, aborted once, twice and then he’s letting go of restraint, fucking Charles’ face in earnest.

He has a heads up of course, a flash of the surface of Sebastian’s mind and so he doesn’t quite choke, though it’s near thing.

Every time he hits the back of his throat, Charles is making little noises, ‘guh guh guh’s’, gutteral and wordless, reduced to the sensation of his mouth, his throat, the worth of his body. He tries to pull back a little, to tease, but Sebastian’s hand presses him closer, holds his head still so he can slide down Charles’ throat without resistance. Charles can do nothing but clutch at his ass, the backs of his thighs, just hang on.

When he comes it’s without verbal warning, just a tightening in Charles’ hair and the crest in his mind breaking spectacularly white hot. The feedback sears Charles and he pulls back with a nasal gasp, mouth full. Sebastian’s dick pops free, splashing across his cheeks and his his lips.

Charles doesn’t particularly enjoy the taste of semen, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t learned to turn that into a strength.

He opens his mouth, tongue rolling. Thick globs run over his lips, down his chin. He knows he’s successful when Sebastian’s clouded eyes sharpen and he raises a hand to cup Charles’ face, thumb rubbing the mess into his chin. The water beads down around them, washing it discreetly down the drain.

“My god, do you know what you look like right now,” Sebastian asks him, still breathless from his orgasm. There’s a flash from him, red lips, slick wet skin, the taste of possession and Charles winces a little as it sends a throbbing pulse through his head. He buries his face in Sebastian’s leg, warm hands palming at his wet scalp.

“Get up,” Sebastian says, finally. “You wanted something for yourself, didn’t you?”

Charles looks up at him, hands caressing the backs of his thighs and high up on ass and smiles.

“Okay,” he says and flows to his feet. He strokes a hand over Sebastian’s bare chest, lets himself be led out of the stall.

Charles wraps himself in the soft, terry cotton of the bathrobe, slings the tie low around his waist. It’s warm and soft against his skin and it absorbs the wet lines his hair drips down the back of his neck. Sebastian follows him into the main room and when Charles turns to look at him he finds he hasn’t bothered with the knot, robe hanging open, everything on glorious display. Charles grins, deliberately trips himself over the edge of the bed, falling back with a whumph. Sebastian stalks towards him, clearly pleased, eyes dark slits. He looms between his split legs, rests his hands on Charles’ thighs just above his knees and glides up and up. His fingers tickle the edge of his robe and then plunge under, stroking past the hollows of his hips, callouses catching against smooth skin.

Charles lets out a breath and stretches, laying a hand lightly over one of Sebastian’s as it hitches up his robe, the vaguely rough sensation of the fabric against his cock torturous. Exposed again, Sebastian turns his attention to the rosy head of Charles’ cock. He guides the hand that Charles has overlaid with his own into a slow rhythm; he drags both their hands into rubbing strokes over his cock. Charles arches into the touch, hips thrusting.

“Oh,” he gasps. “Oh, finally, _yes_.” Sebastian laughs low and runs his thumb under the head. He’s already damp on the tip from more than the shower. Sebastian smears it into the velvety skin, pays special attention to the vein underneath until Charles is making breathless sobs beneath him. His strokes are perfect; tight, the calluses on his fingers catching, every drag over sensitized.

There’s the rustling of sheets; Charles doesn’t see because his head is craned back, pressing into the mattress, but he hears and feels. A red ache. Sebastian’s taken hold of himself.

“You’re debauched,” he tells the hollow of Charles’ hipbone and licks the shaded skin there. His hips roil, thighs brushing against the bed. Charles bites his lip and comes all over himself, splashing his belly as he writhes through it. It takes him by surprise and he’d be embarrassed if Sebastian hadn’t been teasing him so thoroughly, earlier. As it is, he moans, a little nasal sob.

Sebastian’s watching him with a heavy lidded satisfaction in his eyes, rutting into his own hand. When their eyes meet, Charles’ can’t look away, gets lost in brown. He absently runs his fingers in circles in the come cooling on his belly as Sebastian spreads himself out over him. He rises up, jerking himself in twisting strokes until he tenses, back arching and lets go, lets his lets his own come join Charles’, painting his heaving stomach and the back of his hand.

Charles blinks dazedly for a moment at his dirty hand, makes a face and wipes it on the sheets. Sebastian, breathing heavily, gives him a look. Charles just wordlessly holds out his now clean hand. Sebastian snorts, but goes, falling forward and catching himself on his palms on either side of Charles’ head. Charles slides fingers over his back, explores. When Sebastian dips his head Charles arches up to meet him, tongues tangling together. His breath is hot against sweat-cooling flesh.

“Better,” Sebastian asks, against Charles’ lips. Charles humms a little in the back of his throat and stretches beneath him.

“Well,” he says, a little lazily, voice slurred with his recent orgasm. “It was nice, but it’s not exactly fucking me, you know.”

Sebastian quirks a brow at him, smirking.

“I never promised I would.”

Charles licks his lips, dissolves it into a bite and swivels his hips, looking at him with sparking humor in his eyes.

“But you prepared me so well, wouldn’t it be a waste not to?”

Sebastian’s eyes go dark and sharp and he leans down.

“Oh really, you think I prepared you _well_ ,” he purrs and he slides a hand between Charles’ slack thighs and presses two hard, unyielding fingers to the ring of muscle there. Charles hisses through his teeth, head snapping back to thud against the mattress.

“Not so much then, hmm? Or do you like a bit of pain with your pleasure?” Sebastian presses in a little deeper. The first goes in easy but the secound . . . .

“ _Oil_ ,” Charles manages to choke out, tight and high around sensation and the edges of burning.

“Hmm,” Sebastian rumbles, again. “No. I suppose not. Pity.” Charles blinks a little at that, vision hazy, but before he can reply the bed is dipping as Sebastian heaves off of him. Charles lets out a little cry as his finger leaves him, but Sebastian is back quickly with a tube of oil that he’s already spilling on his fingers. Charles’ eyes lock on to the glistening lines, can’t stop himself from squirming in anticipation. Sebastian’s weight is once again warm and unyielding over him.

The slick is heated in his already slackened hole, worked in deep. The angle is easier here on the bed, just a quirk of his hips and in Sebastian’s fingers go, good and thick and with the slick he can do so much _more_. Charles is panting by the time the last knuckles of his fingers bottom out in him.

He’s not as hard as he was the first time, though his cock’s definitely taken an interest in the proceedings, but despite going twice, now Sebastian’s cock is just as rigid as it was in the shower, aching and beading pre-come at the tip.

 _Condoms,_ he thinks, a touch wildly. He has work for it, but with a quick probe of his power he finds nothing but sex, thoughts of him, spread out and stuffed full, leaking until the sheets beneath him are hopelessly destroyed. He has to press deeper, but it’s hard, Sebastian’s arousal trapping him like a sea of molasses. He can’t see anything but what he’s looking for, is having a hard enough time with just that, but eventually he finds it. Sebastian is clean and he really does want to melt Charles into him, around him, mark him as part of himself until even after they part, even years down the line they’re connected. Reaching so deep he’ll never be free of him, choking on it.

He comes to with a gasp, surfacing back into his own mind. He finds he’s wrapped his legs around Sebastian’s waist, wasn’t even conscious of it, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind. He strains against his hold, pressing kisses up and down Charles’ jaw and making a contented noise in the back of his throat. It shouldn’t be possible for one syllable to sound that filthy. Charles hisses and thrusts against his flat stomach.

“I wanna see you tied up, Charles,” Sebastian mutters against his neck. “Pinned and spread out like a butterfly for me.”

Charles’ eyes flash with humour.

“Those insects are dead, you know,” he says, thrusting up into him with a gasp. “I don’t see why you’d want to fuck a dead thing. _Lively_ is so much better, isn’t it?” The explicative slides off his tongue like honeyed milk, vowels rolling in his mouth and Sebastian grins like he means it and smashes their mouths together. He grabs Charles’ hips and pulls him back and down the bed, parting them by standing. Charles yelps and hangs on, legs falling apart.

Sebastian angles his hips just so, supporting him one handed and lining up his cock with the other. Charles’ neck is craned against the mattress and he can _see_ when Sebastian’s hips press forward, in and in and Charles moans and squeezes his eyes shut. That first burn spreads through him, sending spidering heat through every one of his limbs. His hands are fisted tight in the sheets, his hips snap in the air and it’s curious being anchored only by the points pressing into his ass and lower back. Sebastian’s hands are huge.

“Now isn’t that a pretty sight,” he says and only the edges of his words are falling apart, but those tattered hitches speak louder. “What do you do all day without a cock in you, hmm?”

Charles opens his mouth to answer, panting around teeth. Sebastian thrusts particularly hard, grip shifting to dig tight right beneath his hip bones. Charles lets out a cut-off, shattered noise, instead. Sebastian’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Gonna come inside you,” he pants and his thoughts are tinged orange and yellow and red with perverted glee, impending orgasm building hot a white in the backdrop. Charles rolls his hips, can’t help but beckon that fire a little closer. He feels it in his toes and in the base of his spine where Sebastian’s cock jars with every thrust. There’s a white noise at the back of his thoughts, a baritone whining, stuttering sound that Charles slowly comes to realize is him.

Sebastian’s orgasm this time feels like an erupting volcano against his thoughts. There’s the sense of an explosion, then a trickling heat that pours over Charles until it sets off an answering set of fireworks inside him. Sebastian holds himself inside him for a long moment, clutching him in a punishing grip that will bruise very quickly. The points of pain swirl with the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through him, setting off little twitches in his limbs and his stomach and his ass.

Eventually Sebastian lets him down, slides him off his cock and lays him back on the bed. A wet dribble of come leaks from between his thighs and coats the sheets. Charles moans and flushes half-heartedly. He curls up on his side. Sebastian slinks up the bed to lay next to him, slinging an arm around his hips.

“Mmph,” Charles says into the pillow. “Much better.”

“I’m sorry, I tend to enjoy my pillow talk to be a little less literal,” Sebastian says, dryly. It takes a moment for Charles to understand. His eyes droop a little, pleasantly languid. He shifts his head, repeats himself.

“I said: ‘that was much better, thank you’,” he smiles. All in all, it’s not the worst hangover ridden morning after a drunken bar crawl he’s ever experienced. He’s warm, he’s happy and he’s well fucked. He’ll have time, yet before he heads back, time to curl close and enjoy the comfort of this man’s arms for a little longer.

“Oh, we’re not done, yet,” Sebastian says and rolls to crowd up against him on the bed. Charles snorts.

“Come, now you can’t tell me you’re ready, again,” and he wiggles, squirms his ass back into the crook between torso and thigh and--

“Oh, oh, _you are_ ,” Charles says, wonder colouring his voice. He almost wants to check, to look in his mind to see how that’s even possible. He doesn’t usually like to do that with the strangers he picks up; it makes it too familiar, too intimate and Charles has far too many minds crowding out his own as it is.

But he’s curious. When he looks, though, there’s still nothing more than _sexsexsex_ flooding through him, wordless and possessive and a strange sort of blankness that he’s sure he’s never encountered. In fact, he’d encountered it earlier as well, but before he can look further Sebastian is rolling over him, taking him with him, bulk pressing him down deep into the comforter. Charles’ decides he has more _pressing_ matters to concern himself with as Sebastian nuzzles into his hair, _smelling_ him, the clean soap on his skin and the new musk of sex.

He slides into him, his way eased from being stretched, from the slick and the come he’s already smeared inside him. Charles whimpers, bites his cheek and then has to stop because already Sebastian is setting a punishing rhythm, hips pounding, Charles trapped thoroughly into the rough motions.

It’s just on the side of painful, harsh and unfair because Charles knows he can’t do this, again. He’s come twice, already and he needs a moment, just a moment but Sebastian isn’t giving it to him and there’s moisture beading at his eyes from the overwhelming sensation of it all.

“God,” he moans. “Please, _please_.” Sebastian’s teeth clamp down on his shoulder and Charles has thoughts, inappropriate flashes of his Biology courses, of animals in heat, biting the neck to hold their mate still.

His cock swells.

“ _Shit_ ,” he chokes, and he hates that word, how crass it sounds but it’s _impossible_ , this is impossible and of all the things to make him hard, again--

Sebastian shifts over him to grab his hair, yank his head back, far enough that Charles has to get his arms under him to hold himself up.

“Stop thinking,” Sebastian’s teeth un-clamp and he talks against the side of his neck, words smearing his lips over his skin and Charles makes a noise in the back of his throat, out his nose and when Sebastian lets his hair go his head lolls on his shoulders.

“God-- I’m-- sorry--” he chokes, voice hitching with every snap of Sebastian’s hips.”I just can’t-- believe-- you’re still-- going-- after-- coming _ah_ coming so much. If I-- if I didn’t know-- hn, any better-- I’d say-- you were-- magic-- no-- a mutant _ah oh God, please, do that again,_ ”  
He’s _too_ slick, too fucked open, Sebastian’s cock hitting too deep and he can’t, he can’t--

“You’re not to come until I tell you to,” Sebastian says, low and easy, as he reaches around him to wrap his dick in an unforgiving grip. The noise Charles makes is perilously near a shriek, thrashing beneath him as Sebastian thrusts like a freight train.

After a few moments of this, Sebastian grunts like it’s been punched out of him, hips stuttering in their rhythm and and then he’s going, again, like he never stopped, like he didn’t just shoot a fresh spurt up into him and Charles cries out, eyes flying wide.

It feels like hours of this before he finally lets Charles’ come, tumbling over the edge and jerking dry into the sheets, not even a drop left to wring out of him. The muscles under his skin twitch and Sebastian strokes his flank, his limbs, sliding out of him and showering kisses across his back. Spots swim before Charles’ vision, his drooping lids and he closes his eyes, just for a minute, only a minute.

“Hey,” Sebastian murmurs, quiet in his ear. “What are you doing, come on, we’re not done, yet. Wake up, my sweet little cocksucker. Lemme see those baby blues.” Charles shakes his head, clutches his grasping hand.

“A minute,” he mumbles. “A minute.” Sebastian makes a low noise in the back of his throat and Charles gets the impression he’s a little annoyed, but he can’t quite tell if he’s reading it from him or if he’s imagining it, as fucked out as he is.

“Alright,” Sebastian says, and kisses the back of his neck, the knob of his spine, sliding out of his grip. “Alright.”

The bed bounces as he gets up, rocking Charles, but he barely notices it, registers it as just another sensation pulling him down, down into blissfully dreamless sleep.

He’s awoken fifteen minutes later when Sebastian comes back, smelling of coffee.

“I think I’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”

Charles looks at him in sluggish confusion, eyes heavy lidded with exhaustion.

“Hnngh?” He inquires, and Sebastian smiles and pats his lap, looking fresh as a daisy.

“Come on, crawl up,” he says and Charles whimpers.

“Oh god, again?”

Sebastian laughs.

“It’s not polite to leave someone unsatisfied,” he answers. “And so far I’ve been doing all the work. I think I deserve a treat, don’t you?”

“I--” Charles stutters, then moans and heaves himself up, crawls over to him until he’s straddling him. He wraps his arms around his neck and Sebastian pulls him in for a bruising kiss, and how is he so awake, so aware, so _eager_? Charles sinks down onto him and he’s practically sobbing at the over load of sensation.

“I can’t- I can’t get it up,” he confesses, too tired to be embarrassed, hips rocking little jerks. He’s already bottomed out in him. Sebastian nuzzles his throat.

“That’s alright, just one more time, I can’t get enough of you. Hungry for you,” he says. “Just want to enjoy everything you’re offering.” He pulls back, smiling. “You are offering, still, right?” And God, how is he so _composed_. Charles’ muscles are trembling from the strain and Sebastian, the _utter bastard_ is enjoying it, is enjoying watching Charles work through his exhaustion, through the heavy lassitude in his limbs.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

The human body is capable of a great many things and while Charles has gone so far past his secound wind, his third, hell, even his fourth, he manages to put his head down and lose himself in the white noise rushing through his mind, synapses too disoriented to do more then fire half heartedly.

“You’re insatiable,” he mumbles, head lolling. Sebastian takes it between his fingers, forces him to face him.

“Look at me,” he purrs. “Don’t fall asleep, come on, just a little more, mm, that’s it, just like that.” Charles’ hips jerk, jump up and down, up and down. He just has to find the rhythm, keep his balance, but it’s _hard_ and he should be raw, but he has so much easing his way.

“How are you going to come, again,” he whines and Sebastian laughs breathlessly, kisses the side of his mouth.

“I have my secrets,” he says, eyes twinkling darkly. “As I’m sure you have yours. Come on, a little harder, Charles. You’re better then this.”

“God, you poor thing,” he adds when after stroking a hand through Charles’ hair, his head falls back, mouth gaping, not even enough energy to keep it closed. His hips stutter up, the red tip of his cock bobbing against his spent balls. Sebastian reaches between them and palms it, stroking like he’s petting a frightened cat. Charles whimpers and squirms, but there’s truth in his words and his cock remains flaccid. It’s not even entirely pleasant when Sebastian squeezes it, plays with it, _teasing_ him. It’s painful, over sensitive and raw and he’s looking at Charles like Charles’ is something cute. As if it’s perfectly natural to come five times in fewer hours, like Charles the strange one. It’s not fair, is what it isn’t. Charles is proud of his stamina, he’s not an eager teenager. He’s just- he’s just at the disadvantage today.

“Is that so,” Sebastian asks, eyes half-lidded and pleased. Charles blinks. Apparently he said that out loud. “But you’re already done, spent so many time these sheets are ruined.” He takes one of Charles’ hands and lays it over one of the many damp spots. Still supporting him with one arm wrapped around his back he holds Charles’ hand in front of his mouth until Charles gives in and licks. Even the muscle of his tongue is shaking with exhaustion when the pink tip of it pokes out of bruised lips and tastes salt and musk. Sebastian’s eyes go sharp and his hips jerk a little, the grip on his back tightening.

“You are cute,” he confides. “And you’re also a tease, slow as you’re going.” His inflection is dirty on _tease_ , subtle threads of shame and selfishness lacing the word. Charles shudders.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”

“Would you leave someone unsatisfied, Charles?” Sebastian’s eyebrow is arched high and there’s a hint of amusement in the otherwise admonishing crook of his lips. Charles shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says and is struck by an idea.

“Mouth,” he adds, desperate. “I have a mouth.”

“I’d prefer your ass,” Sebastian shoots it down. “Beside, I don’t have much hope for your mouth, either.” He pats the globes of Charles’ ass, right next to where he’s struggling and Charles winces, hips dropping sharply. He felt that one all through him.

“Please,” he whimpers, sparks speckling through his vision.

Finally, Sebastian gives in with a huff of good-humoured irritation. He tips Charles over, once again on his back and lets go, plowing in to him with vicious thrusts that have Charles screaming. It’s over-sensation at its greatest, pleasure tilting into pain and rolling and rolling together until he can’t tell the difference.

He comes like a shot to the spine, almost painful, cock buried deep and Charles has the vague realization that the orgasm wasn’t his before he’s pulled under into blackness.

Passing out is a pretty a terrible way to end a liaison, even if he seems to posses a supernatural staying power, he decides, later. He’s awoken this time by the sound of the central air kicking on, the various aches and pains of his body clamoring for attention in the foreground. He feels not unlike he’s been hit by a semi, an apt metaphor.

“I seem to find myself spending an embarrassing amount of time unconscious around you,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes. Sebastian is awake; the cadence of his thoughts are organized and fast-paced. He’s cataloging something, shuffling things this way and that until they come up to a whole he’s satisfied with. Charles wonders if he ever sleeps.

When Charles speaks it all winds abruptly to a stop, tone once again flooding with now-familiar amusement. Charles carefully pulls back, again.

“It is a bit embarrassing, yes,” he agrees. Charles sighs and shifts uncomfortably. His body is waking up and it’s just making all the little (and not so little) aches and pains sting that much sharper. He sits up, yawning fiercely and rakes a hand through his hair, grimacing at the layer of grime he encounters.

“How long have I been sleeping,” he asks at the same time as he looks around for the bed-side clock. He flies tense and awake. “I should go,“ he says, staring at the clock with wide eyes. It’s nearly four in the afternoon. They’d agreed to meet back at the hotel room around five and that’s half-way across town.

He’s let himself fall back into an ugly habit he’d gotten into in undergrad school, no better then a teenager one he could afford, then. He very much cannot now that he holds responsibilities far greater then himself.

He flings himself out of the bed, gathering his clothing as he goes, hopping into his pants. Sebastian watches him from where he’s sprawled out on the bed, one arm thrown over the head rest in a show of laziness.

“In a hurry to go so soon,” he drawls and Charles snorts as he pulls his shirt on over his head.

“Haha, very funny, but I have an important appointment to keep. I need to go,” he replies and nearly falls flat on his face as the world is rocked by a wave of dizziness.

Sebastian is there in an impossible instant, hand steady under his elbow and something niggles at the back of Charles’ brain once more.

“Careful there, prince charming,” Sebastian murmurs as he rights him. Charles laughs a little unsteadily and leans into the touch.

“Hardly a prince,” a minuscule slur colouring his voice, shaping his vowels.

“No, I suppose it tends to be the princess who faints in the middle of the action, but I was trying to be polite.”

Charles splutters.

It’s not the first time’s been accused of such, but it is the first time he’s been called it on account of having a fit of the vapors in front of someone else, no matter how deserved the reaction might have been.

( _Hot breath, sweating bodies and explosions that hit him again and again and again not even a full half of them his own_ )

He still feels like he could sleep for a week straight.

“You are clearly operating on another level from the rest of us entirely, dear boy,” he says, completely dry and pulls himself out of his grip. “Pants, where are my pants?”

“I think you’re just out of shape,” Sebastian replies and lets him go, grinning wolfishly.

“Oh here they are,” Charles exclaims lightly and he scoops them up from the floor at the same time as he tugs on his underwear. His watch tumbles to the floor and he bends again to pick it up. “Ugh, these smell of stale cigars and old liquor.”

Sebastian is watching him appreciatively. Charles sighs.

“I don’t look too much like we’ve just,” and he flaps his hand expansively, pulling a face that Sebastian clearly thinks is hilarious.

“Nah,” he says brightly and smacks him on the globes of his ass. It jars a fresh gush of the evidence of their activities loose, slicking his thighs and his underwear uncomfortably to his skin. Charles flushes, swats at him.

“Stop that. I have to be somewhat presentable, you know,” and he glances longingly at the shower, but he’s already dallied too long. Erik will just have to live with it, it’s not as if he’s unaware of what Charles has been doing. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m not going to be able to sit for a week.”

Sebastian smirks at him and really the man is insufferable.

“I didn’t think you were complaining.”

Charles smiles, a little absently as he buckles up his pants.

"Oh no, my friend, it will be a sweet inconvenience," he reassures him and smiles. "But I really do have to go.”

Sebastian walks him to the door, palm a solid weight resting on the small on his back. His ass is leaking with every step and that’s not exactly pleasant, causes him to wince. He makes for a hasty goodbye, but Sebastian doesn’t seem amenable to the idea. He wraps himself around Charles, newly familiar hands stroking intimate places, like the hollows of his hips. It suddenly strikes Charles how much he’s given this stranger, this man whose body he’s learned more of in the short time they’ve have then even his longest lived lover. How much Sebastian’s learned of him.

The idea isn’t entirely. . . comfortable. Charles turns in Sebastian’s grip and presses up into his lips, leaving with a stinging kiss before he finally manages to tear himself away and slip into the night.

It’s nearly midnight when Charles stumbles back to the hotel. They agreed, of course, on one day of vacation, of doing whatever they wanted. One day to enjoy themselves, but Charles is hardly surprised when he gets close enough to be in range to find Erik’s mind humming with impatience, already home. Probably, he’s been there most of the day. There’s a pool on the ground floor and more then likely he spent his time there, lean form cutting through the still waters with ease.

Charles sighs and rubs at one eye. These excursions are supposed to make it easier _not_ to think about this, but sometimes it seems all they accomplish is making the feeling of drowning more intense.

It’s worse when they’re close, when Charles can feel the low hum of his thoughts in the back of his own. It’s amplified somehow; the ache of _wanting_. Charles doesn’t look too closely at the implications of that, won’t let himself cross that line. Erik outwardly acts like he feels nothing, jokes around the tightness of his eyes, the frustration like hot coals in his mind. He holds himself with affected stillness and aches while his voice flows jovial and easy, words witty and never belying his thoughts.

It drives Charles to tear out his hair, gives a wild edge to his outings, when he loses himself in flesh and the pleasures of giving and receiving, to decadence.

Charles shakes his head, rubs at his temples. These thoughts are completely unhelpful and also apparently enough time has passed for those illicit stirrings to take up residence below his belt, again. Phenomenal and a bit reassuring, since he wasn’t quite sure he’d ever be able to rise to meet a challenge, again, but Charles certainly doesn’t need to walk back into their shared room sporting a tell-tale bulge in his slacks. As if he’s not uncomfortable, tired and in desperate need of a shower. Possibly something to eat. Yes, definitely a meal. It’s long past supper and as he approaches the room he keeps getting these flashes of. . . something. Warm and steaming, smelling like spices and meat that keep enticing him to walk just that little bit faster, though it makes his hips hitch oddly, uncomfortable. Every step is torture. He winces and pauses at the entrance to their shared room, taking a breath to compose himself.

The key between his fingers turns neatly in the lock.

“It would have opened for you anyways, you know,” Erik says dryly from where he’s sitting, voice muffled by the greyscale print of the local paper. His long legs are crossed; he’s still dressed and the fabric hitches up revealing the skinny lines of malnourished ankles. “My ankles are fine. Did you have a pleasant liaison?”

Charles groans and lets his head thunk back against the wood of the door. Traces a hand in the air expansively.

“Yes- yes I. Thank you. I did.” He sighs and pushes himself back to his feet and into he room. He’s not exactly surprised that Erik knows what he’s been up to. He’s never had any qualms about what he is, flirting as he does.

Walking is still a chore. _Standing_ is still a chore and Charles, satisfied Erik is more interested in the paper in front of his face (surface thoughts droning _lost boy found three miles down river separated from his troop while camping in the woods used his training boy scout resources_ on and on) gives in and lets himself flop belly first onto the couch and buries his head in his hands. He feels like he’s not going to be able to sit for months.

Erik ruffles his paper.

“We’re expected at the institute tomorrow at noon. I’m sure we’ll be able to make it if we leave at eight.”

Charles takes a deep breath and sighs it out. He’s exhausted, yes, but he’s been more so before and he’ll not have a hangover in the morning, at least.

“There’s dinner if you’d like. In the oven.”

Charles looks up with a start, eyes very wide.

“You didn’t. Oh, my friend, you are far too good for me.”

Erik makes a non committal noise and closes his newsprint, unfolding his legs and standing. He rolls up the paper.

“Come on, your highness. _Up_ ,” he says and Charles only has enough warning to tense and he’s bringing the roll down on his ass. The sounds echoes through the room and Charles goes white, then a little red from lack of oxygen as he tries very, very hard not to cry out.

It’s just one more little thing, just another pinch of _something_ that they’ve been dancing around for the last few months.

When he stands he feels Erik’s eyes on him, gaze hot and uncomfortable. Charles crosses the room without limping. Erik’s expression goes a little shuttered, then melts into something drier, yet somehow warmer and he holds out a platter. Charles gingerly takes it from him.

The sight of it is more then enough to make it all a whole lot more bearable.

It’s a few slices of roasted beef, aromatic and seared, corn, potatoes. Charles ducks his head to hide his smile, the traitorous warmth that spreads through his limbs.

He wants to be hurt; maybe it would be easier if it hurt a little more. He could pull himself back away from what Erik obviously doesn’t want to want ( _that low hum whenever Charles is around, breaking like a wave against his shielding. It’s always present, even now; it’s intense. Erik is pleased that Charles is pleased, but Erik is afraid he’ll leave them both_ ). As it is, the low ache is just this side of sweet, almost addictively pleasant. He thought he’d grown out of such whimsy in college, but apparently an addiction to useless melancholy was hard to crush.

They sit at the island, high backed chairs with raised foot rests. Charles’ feet dangle above, Erik’s below.

“So,” Erik says, casually as he can manage. “How was your. . . ‘vacation’?”

Your vacation, not theirs. Charles sighs and cuts a morsel off his roast.

“I met someone,” he answers and Erik’s mind chirps ‘obviously’ and Charles doesn’t roll his eyes.

“Like us, I suspect,” he finishes.

Erik’s brow furrows. _In what way_ , he wants to ask.

“And you didn’t recruit her?”

Charles doesn’t correct him, and tries very hard not to flush. As if Erik doesn’t know.

“Well,” he replies, awkwardly, staring intently at his potatoes.

“Ah,” Erik answers and his fork scrapes against his plate.

There’s a beat of silence, Charles is about to break it with something else painfully awkward, preferably with a considerable amount of enthusiasm to compensate (he’s a firm believer in the power of enthusiasm). Erik speaks, first.

“If you see her, again, tell her to use less perfume.”

Charles freezes. The very last of the pleasant mood plummets, drops away. When Charles looks, Erik seems as stunned by the accusation as Charles is, but there’s nothing like guilt in his thoughts, only a biting resignation. He’s been waiting for this.

Truthfully, so has Charles.

“I don’t want to fight,” he says, carefully. Erik quirks a brow.

“I never said anything about fighting,” he replies, voice deceptively calm, low, dangerous. “You’ve simply been flaunting it and I made an observation.” He sips his drink. Charles very carefully does not make him throw it across the room. He grew out of such childish responses when he was fourteen, he’s not about to restart, now. Even if Erik is, at select times, infuriating enough to reduce him to it.

“I don’t think that’s precisely what you wanted to say, Erik,” Charles points out, cultivated calm.

“Oh? Then tell me, what did I want to say? You’re clearly an expert.”

Charles closes his eyes.

“Erik,” he says, simply. Erik looks at him, expectant until it becomes clear that he isn’t going to continue. His eyes narrow.

“You’re acting the child, Charles,” he says, matter-of-fact. “We’re not here to play. I thought you wanted to start your school? I fail to see how getting drunk and fucking someone is conducive to that goal.”

Charles feels a muscle in his jaw twitch and takes a deep breath.

“I’m _sorry_ , Erik, but I’m only human. I refuse to apologize for it. None of that means that I’m any less invested in this; you of all people should know that.”

“That’s my _point_ , Charles. We’re not human,” Erik says and Charles lets out an explosive sigh at this and rubs at his head. He probably could have phrased that better. “We’re not human and we have a responsibility to our own kind. You dragged me with you on this, the least you can do is hold up some measure of decorum.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, my friend,” Charles says tiredly, carding his fingers through his hair as he slumps his weight onto his hands. He’s dirty and he’s exhausted and he aches and he wants to finish this so he can shower and go to bed. His dinner lies cooling before him; he’s not really hungry, anymore.

Thoughts flash through Erik’s mind, memories of men and women, Charles drunk and flushed and smiling at anyone that comes his way.

Charles bristles a bit at the anyone, fingers tightening in his hair, but he’s long been used to swallowing the way people see him. He takes a careful breath through his nose.

Jealous. The idiot is jealous and he doesn’t even see it. Yes Erik has always been driven, _focused_ , but even he has paused before for life. This is about _them_.

“‘I’ve seen all the women you like,’” he says, a perfect mockery of Erik’s deeper thoughts. He doesn’t look up, but he can sense Erik’s eyes fly wide and furious. “‘The brunettes and blonds with the pretty legs and the prettier tits and the vapid brains. Is it easier for you, when their heads are so empty? Perhaps it’s comforting on some level?’ No, Erik, it’s not comforting. It’s just what I do. People are rarely as empty as you think.” He stands from his chair, pushing it back. Erik’s knuckles are white from where they’re clutching at the table and Charles thinks, wonders if he’s gone too far, but finds he’s too tired to care.

Just to prove his point, he throws at him pictures of the minds he’s been with, the most spectacular collection, thoughts sharp and biting, warm and melodious, musical and wild.

“I’m going to go, now. As you pointed out, we have an early day tomorrow and I’d like to get some sleep.

“And it’s not always women, my friend, but I think you know that.”

One last picture, this time of Sebastian, his smirk, the still depth in brown eyes. The feeling of sly sensuality and the razor edge of his thoughts.

Erik goes very, very still, both his body and more distressing, deep in his mind. Charles stops and looks back at him.

“What-” Charles starts, but Erik interrupts him.

“What was his name,” he asks and it’s almost not a question. Charles frowns, trying to stare through him, but his mind is quite suddenly no longer open to him. He’s projecting a tangled wall of silence, of white noise built up and snapped haphazardly together, almost like shock. Charles can barely even look at it without wincing. Worry floods him, the fight forgotten. There’s familiar violence in that stillness.

"Sebastian,” he answers carefully and Erik's jaw nearly breaks he's clenching it so hard.

" _And the last name_ " he grits out and Charles frowns.

"I don't know, I didn't get it. Erik, what is it? What’s wrong,” he asks, tempted just to dive in anyways and pull it out, but Erik is already answering.

"Shaw," Erik grits out, " _It was Shaw_ ," and Charles doesn’t process this for a long moment. When he does, he goes very pale.

"Where was he," Erik snaps, before he can say a word, surging up out of his seat and grabbing him by the tussled neck of his shirt. " _Where _damn you, you blithering idiot," and he shakes him. His anger catches Charles up and pressed hot into his mind. Charles sends him a murky picture of the hotel and its location, tinged blank with his own shock and then Erik is gone, out the door, coat whipping around his frame as he jerks it on.__

 _Charles thinks _I should follow him,_ he thinks _I should move,_ but Erik's anger is blasting at him still, the combined weight of it and his own dawning horror leaving him paralyzed._

He cannot reconcile the one-night stand and that of Erik’s mad Doktor. The images chase themselves around his mind, fleeting and confused.

After a time, Erik’s anger goes so white hot, Charles thinks he maybe passes out a little from it. He wakes leaning against the counter were the pot of tea they’d had with their supper sits steaming in its cradle. Swallowing, Charles takes a deep breath, one and then another. Erik went back to the hotel and found Shaw gone, disappeared again, into the woodwork. He pushes away, goes to stand by the door, to go after Erik when he realizes he’s still wearing his soiled pants. The thought makes him shudder and he hurries over to the suitcase sprawling its contents across the secound twin bed.

It’s of course around the time that he’s decided to remove the filthy accoutrement that Erik chooses to return, blasting back into the room like a hurricane. He’s been broadcasting so wildly, _loudly_ even a mile away that Charles hadn’t even been able to sense the minuscule _shift_ in his perception that meant he’d returned.

Charles gapes over his shoulder at him, the globes of his ass hanging out pale and ridiculous. Charles feels his face heat.

“I-” he starts, but then Erik is _growling_ and his eyes are fever-bright chips of ice and in a flash he’s across the room, picking Charles up bodily, his entire form suddenly dangling in his grip. His ass is set on his shoulder and Charles is too dazed to kick feet that are suddenly up off the ground and then it’s too late anyway as he’s being shoved into the wall, high up, arms scrabbling for purchase.

“What-- what are you--” he manages to choke out, even though he knows, can feel frustrated arousal and intent rolling off him like waves, and then he feels something press across his back, too tight for his arms to slide under. He grips at it blindly, elbows dangling over the rounded edge. The metal curtain rod, pinning him bodily, face first into the wall. Charles whimper turns to what could only be called a _keen_ , a painful howl that wrings out of him.

Erik is sliding his way down his back, ignoring the tails of his shirt, hands roaming, grabbing, groping and something hot and wet is sliding over the small of his back, the globes of his ass parting--

“God, Erik,” Charles chokes, writhing, the sudden rush of all his blood to another extremity leaving him dizzy and breathless. “It’s considered, at the very least, to be _polite_ to ask first.”

Erik pauses, hovering and _oh god where is his mouth, not there, he shouldn’t be touching there_ and when he speaks the ghost of his breath tickles over sensitive, intimate skin and Charles clamps down on his bottom lip until he’s whining out his nose.

“Fine,” Erik says, snarls, snaps. “I’m asking.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Charles explodes, body sinuating. Erik’s hovering mouth follows him, breath still puffing in and out and in and--

The first wet touch of his tongue wrenches a cry from Charles, mouth falling slack and open as the slick muscle presses into his already abused and over-sensitive hole. Erik snorts, pulls back to nuzzle the inside of his ass with his cheek.

“Perhaps I didn’t think I needed to ask,” he says, scathing, mind whirling with images, ugly and sharp and at odds with the tender way his stubble rasps against virgin-soft skin. He’s nothing if not stubborn in his beliefs. “You’re a slut enough I knew you’d say ‘yes’. This is where you let him fuck you, isn’t it, _here_ ,” and then he’s delving back in, kissing his hole, tongue writhing in him, rhythmic _thrustthrustthrust_. It’s long and thin and moist and _perfect_ inside of him and he can’t get farther then an indignant flash that doesn’t make it past the confines of his own mind at Erik’s insulting insinuation. He’ll have words with him about it, later, but for now, _for now_ \--

Erik is sucking, lips locked inexorably around his entrance. Charles’ hips swivel, jerk, try instinctively to get away from the not-entirely pleasant sensation, but it’s a hopeless endeavor. Erik’s mouth is insistent, tongue lapping at every drop of liquid he wrings from deep within Charles’ ass and he feels white hot shame lancing his guts.

“No,” he moans. “Please, I didn’t, _I’m sorry_ ,” but Erik just reaches up and grabs his thighs, forcing them farther apart until his ass is practically flowing, flooding Erik’s waiting mouth until there’s nothing left but slick, clenching muscle red and puffy from the innumerable abuses it’s been through today.

Erik pauses, resting his cheek against his the round hump of his ass, again, breathing heavily through his nose, catches his breath.

He stands slowly, one hand dipping under the fabric of his shirt to caress his stomach, the other gliding over the fabric of his shirt, sifting through the hair at his nape and then his long, clever fingers close into an unforgiving fist, trapping dark brown strands in a punishing grip. He says nothing as he tilts Charles’ head, makes his heaving form face him, eyes wide, pupils blown black. Charles doesn’t understand, not at first, not until Erik’s pressing their lips together, messy sloppy, tongue sliding out to lever his mouth into compliance. Charles’ opens beneath him, the chorus of _hotbaddirtywrong_ screaming in his head drowned out by the force of his arousal, but then Erik opens his mouth.

“Mff,” Charles whimpers, struggling against his grip. The taste of come is salty and bitter in his mouth, and Erik’s tongue is fucking in like he’d been fucking his hole, depositing wet semen deep into slick heat.

 _Take it,_ Erik thinks savagely, hips thrusting, cock rubbing between Charles’ ass cheeks and naked, when did he have a chance to get naked, Charles hadn’t _seen_. He nearly slides in but not quite, not yet. Helplessly, Charles spreads his legs and lets his mouth go slack.

“Now swallow it,” Erik growls, pulling back and abandoning Charles’ hair to grasp his jaw. Charles shakes his head, goes to spit, but the hand is like iron and it tilts his head back. Erik’s other hand comes up, pinches his nose until he has no choice but to follow the order, hands grasping at Erik’s wrists, tugging half-heartedly. “You did this to yourself, _swallow it_.”

It takes twice, throat working, the disgusting sensation running down the back of his throat. So much he’s been hiding. It’s no wonder Erik is angry. He breathes in a gasp and it’s then that Erik chooses to thrust his hips forward, gripping Charles’ by the waist and sliding in past already slack muscle, bottoming out in one smooth strike.

“Ah,” Charles cries out, moans, mouth hanging open, still desperately swallowing around the dirty taste against his tongue.

He’s been waiting for this, waiting for what seems like months, _years_ , ever since he dragged Erik up out of the water, offered him friendship, offering him _more_ down deep where no one else could see it.

“Selfish,” Erik hisses in his ear. “You’re _selfish _and naive,” _I don’t want to lose you,_ his mind adds, silently, offering it up like it’s the last thing he wants to say and the only thing he _needs_ to say. “He could have killed you.”__

Erik _moves_ and it’s nothing like Sebastian, who rutted and relied on the force of thrusts. Erik’s strokes are measured, intense and _designed_. A nail breaks off when Charles claws at the metal rod beneath his hands. His hips work frantically against the wallpaper, friction painful and sweet and-

“ _No_ ,” Erik says viciously. “You don’t get to enjoy this,” and he forces a hand between his hip the wall, grabs his cock in a punishing grip _squeezing_ until Charles is seeing stars. He can’t even cry out, the air in his lungs lodges deep in the pit of his gut where his orgasm bubbles like an angry beast.

“You did this,” Erik growls in his ear. His free hand roves everywhere it can reach, taking him, claiming him. _Do you know what it would have drove me to if something happened to you, what I would have _done?__

 _“ _Erik_ ,” Charles finally manages. The blood in his head beats in time to the pulse of his strangled cock._

“ _No_ ,” Erik snarls and slams into him one final time. His teeth latch on to Charles’ shoulder, a ring of teeth that will bruise and a mark that will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Erik lets go.

“Erik,” Charles repeats, like a mantra. “Erik, Erik, Erik, _I’m sorry,_ ” and everything whites out, again. He’s becoming accustomed to that blankness. If he’s not careful he won’t be able to live with out it.

He collapses and with it, the pressure of the metal rod disappears, clattering with a clank to the floor between them. He’s too tired to jump, can only manage to turn himself until he can wrap his arms around Erik, clinging desperately. His unbuttoned shirt hangs lopsided off his frame.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t _know_.” Erik buries his face in Charles’ hair, breath stirring it, strands sticking damply to his lips. His own arms remain, fluttering helplessly at his sides until they go rigid, clench and Erik steps back, steps away from Charles. He brings hands up to lever out of Charles’ grip, more forcefully when Charles doesn’t move, fighting him, whimpering.

“I can’t, Charles, I can’t. Let go of me, I can’t do this. Charles _let go of me_ ,” Erik hisses and the metal comes up between them, trips Charles until he’s sprawled half-naked on the carpet. He shudders and puts his head in his hands with a moan.

“Sorry,” he repeats, more steady then he thought he could manage. “Sorry,” and they regard each other for a long moment, panting. Questions build behind Erik’s eyes, swirling and angry, dizzying in their intensity.

“ _Why_ ,” he finally asks, a hoarse cry like someone’s ripped it out of him, even though he already knows the answer.

“ _I didn’t know,_ ” Charles repeats and then he’s looking up at him, eyes flashing like ice as the haze finally breaks. “I didn’t know,” and there’s steal in his words, in his expression. “Do you think I’d do this to you on purpose, honestly? Erik do you think so little of me?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Erik snaps, teeth bared. “Kidnapped, beaten, _worse_.”

“Had he felt anything like danger to me I would have been able to stop him. _I’m not helpless Erik_. I could have stopped either of you at any time.”

And Erik goes to shout, to roar at him, but he finds he’s frozen, rooted to the spot, the only thing in his control the rolling of his eyes.

“Damn you,” he hisses when Charles finally releases him. Charles gives him a steady look.

“He didn’t know who I was anymore then I knew him. It’s alright, I’m _fine_ ,” he says, firmly. Erik’s lips purse, eyes hard slate. He moves away from him, goes over to his discarded pants. He comes back and with a ruthless little flick of his wrist he holds out a crumpled ball of stationary. Charles takes it, skimming, eyes going wide.

 _It was interesting, fucking someone willing,_ the note reads and he shudders. _Let this be a lesson to you, a fallback to old times, if you will. Even if you don’t keep your enemies close, they’re always watching you. Your telepath was sweet for me. I think I’d like to keep him for myself._

 _Your caring Doktor,  
Sebastian Shaw_


End file.
